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Innu women march against Hydro-Quebec project

Plan Nord, a multibillion-dollar scheme, will open the north to mining and energy companies, but some Innu are worried it will destroy their land.

"I'm doing this for them," marcher Selena Gregoire says of her three children. "So they don't lose our way of life, so they can go out and hunt in the forest when they're older."

By Lorraine MallinderSpecial to the Star

Fri., April 13, 2012

ST-HILARION, QUEBEC—Elise Vollant would not consider herself a political person. Yet, the former nursery school teacher is currently leading members of her Innu community on a 900-kilometre march to Montreal to protest the Quebec government’s Plan Nord, a multibillion-dollar scheme that will open the north to mining and energy companies.

The group, originally comprising 14 women, left Uashat Mak Mani-Utenam near Sept-Îles nearly two weeks ago. They plan to reach Montreal on April 22 to join wider environmental protests against the Plan Nord. Along the way, they’ve picked up supporters from other reserves and a French ethnologist. Now, midway, they are nearly 40 strong.

“I would never have imagined we’d get this far,” says Vollant, raising her voice against the din of passing trucks on a dismal stretch of Highway 138. Her political odyssey began last month after she joined a five-day blockade of a road running through her reserve to the $6.5 billion La Romaine hydroelectric project.

The community was protesting Hydro-Quebec’s installation of transmission towers over their ancestral lands, which had been done without their consent. They were also concerned about the potential flooding of their traditional hunting and fishing grounds. The Uashaunnuat still fish for salmon and hunt Canada geese and caribou.

Vollant was arrested along with 12 others. Once released, she took to Facebook to vent her frustration. “I said all Innu had to be strong and united, to work together as one people,” she says. The comment prompted a huge reaction, with messages of support from as far afield as Poland and Japan. “At one point I was going to pack it all in, but I began to feel a new strength inside,” says Vollant, who is funding the walk with donations from supporters.

The marchers take turns walking five-kilometre stretches. Those who are off-duty drive cars and pickups laden with pans, provisions and mattresses, arranging accommodation for the nights ahead and posting Facebook updates from their phones.

“If the Plan Nord goes through, we’re finished,” says Selena Grégoire, as she watches her three children play on the rocky ground by the highway. “It will damage our territory. I’m doing this for them, so they don’t lose our way of life, so they can go out and hunt in the forest when they’re older. We have to protest so they recognize our rights.”

The people
of Uashat Mak Mani-Utenam have voted in two successive referenda to turn down agreements with Hydro-Quebec that included an $80 million cash payment, $45 million in jobs and construction contracts and a development fund. The band council was even taking legal action against Hydro-Quebec for mounting the transmission towers without permission.

So, where’s the problem?

According to marcher Clemence Simon, marchers feel the project will eventually go through anyway. The band council has already agreed to drop its court action in return for a compensation package. And, Hydro-Quebec is making inroads into the community, signing a contract with local Innu-owned company Nemetau, which is cutting down trees to make way for its transmission lines.

“We feel like Hydro-Quebec is in charge. They will find a way in somehow,” says Simon.

As for wider developments, the band council has already signed agreements with four iron mining companies.

The Plan Nord promises a multitude of benefits for native groups, including jobs and investments in health care, education, transport and infrastructure. But all this means little to the Innu, who have been making a concerted effort to return to the traditional hunter-gatherer ways. It’s all part of a general battle to get their identity back after the trauma of the residential schools era, says marcher Paquerette Mollon. “We just want things to stay the same,” she says.

As night falls,
an air of despondency descends upon the group. They had hoped to stay in a community centre in Baie-Saint-Paul, which is another 30 kilometres away. Now, they will have to make do with a small room above a chicken barn in Saint-Hilarion. Jokes about eating chicken for supper and eggs for breakfast soon wear thin.

There’s talk of some participants finding a motel room. After unloading mattresses and blankets, everyone gathers for a progress report. “Even if it’s small, at least we’re all together. I’ll sleep standing up,” quips one of the marchers, sending a ripple of laughter through the room. Everyone stays.

After a bowl of pasta, it’s time to turn in. Vollant runs through a checklist of the marchers, ticking off names with a pen. Montreal is still a long way off, but there’s definitely no going back now. “Our land is the last thing we have left,” she says. “It’s our identity.”

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